


Favourite Worst Nightmare

by darlingargents



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: "Is Pennywise Actually Eating My Ass Or Is This A Dream?", Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crying, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Erotic Lumberjack Fantasies, Horror, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Painful Sex, Rimming, Set Mid-IT (2017)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23182492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlingargents/pseuds/darlingargents
Summary: It's clear that it’s going to be one ofthosenights.
Relationships: Richie Tozier/Paul Bunyan Statue, Richie Tozier/Pennywise (implied)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 52





	Favourite Worst Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Elle [liesmyth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liesmyth/pseuds/liesmyth) is a filthy enabler. That's all I can say for myself. Title from the album of the same name by Arctic Monkeys. (And thank you Elle for the title suggestions!)
> 
> Timeline-wise, this is the night after the Neibolt House fight and the Losers club temporarily breaking up.

It’s one of those summer nights where the sun going down does _nothing_ to make it any less insanely hot.

Richie’s bedroom window is flung wide open, begging for a breeze, and Richie lies on his bed, stripped down to his boxers, his blanket kicked off and onto the floor, and still too fucking hot to sleep.

Hot, and a bit scared, still. Freaked out about Eddie’s broken arm, and the clown, and the fact that they aren’t talking, and about Bill losing his marbles and maybe killing them all, and—

He needs to stop thinking. Richie grabs his pillow and drops it over his face. His glasses smash into his nose and he groans. Fucking typical.

He stays there, with the pillow on his face and wallowing in self-pity, for a solid thirty seconds before he throws the pillow somewhere else on the bed and takes off his glasses. It’s not going to cool down anytime soon. He might as well try to sleep. He grabs the blanket — it’s pretty light, at least — and turns off the light.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

It soon becomes clear that it’s going to be one of _those_ nights.

The dream starts slow and hazy — he’s lying in bed, it’s sunny but not hideously hot, and there’s a smiling man sitting on the side of his bed. He looks vaguely familiar, tall and bearded and wearing a flannel. He looks like a lumberjack, a bit.

He smiles at Richie, and slowly reaches down to rub at his dick through the blanket.

Yeah. One of those dreams.

Richie lets himself sink into it; he closes his eyes and thrusts his hips up into the hand as it rubs. When it pulls away, he opens his eyes to see the lumberjack standing and pulling his blanket aside. Richie’s naked under the covers, of course, and the man adjusts himself on the bed and, without any fuss, ducks his head down to take Richie’s dick into his mouth.

It feels _amazing_ in that hazy dream way. Richie’s so caught up in it, lying back with his eyes closed, lazily getting a blowjob, that he doesn’t realize something is wrong immediately.

He opens his eyes, maybe thirty seconds later, and the room is getting darker, like a cloud is blocking the sun. When he looks at the lumberjack, he looks less human. His skin looks almost waxy.

Or plastic.

The feeling of terror hits him at the same moment as the sky goes black outside his window. There’s a shriek of birds, a chorus of cries, and a flock of crows flies past at top speed. Richie looks down at the lumberjack, and knows, suddenly, exactly what he’s looking at.

The lumberjack pulls off Richie’s dick — somehow, Richie has managed to forget that he’s mid-blowjob — and looks up. The plastic face, the wide-open mouth. The Paul Bunyan statue from the park.

Richie screams and scrambles back against the headboard as the statue laughs, moving stiffly towards him. The window bangs open and wind gusts in, knocking things over. Crows fly in and shriek around him, and he screams, and screams, as Paul Bunyan’s plastic hand closes around his ankle.

He expects to wake up.

He doesn’t.

Paul pulls him back and uses both hands to spread his legs wide. It’s cold now, in the gusting wind, and it feels like the middle of a tornado, things blowing around him in every direction. Paul ducks his head to Richie’s dick, and then lower, down to—

“What the _hell_?” Richie yells, barely audible over the sound of wind. But Paul’s plastic tongue, slick with a wet substance that might be spit or something worse, runs over his asshole over and over again, licking at him. He has no idea why, or what it’s supposed to mean, or — he realizes, in horror, that he’s still hard. That despite the terror overcoming him, it feels almost good.

Richie closes his eyes, and tries to ride it out. The shrieking of birds rings around him, echoing in his ears, as the slick plastic tongue forces its way into his body. The intrusion _hurts_ , enough that he wonders, again, if he’s still dreaming. He has no idea.

He opens his eyes, and Paul lifts his head, and smiles. There’s so many teeth, so many—

Then Paul looks down and Richie does too, and sees Paul’s clothing peeling away, revealing a thick, heavy, plastic cock.

Richie screams. He can barely hear himself over the wind and birds and creaking of Paul’s plastic body as he lines himself up and starts to push in. If he thought the pain from the tongue was bad, this is so much worse. It’s overwhelming, and tears start to run down his cheeks as it keeps pushing further and further in, until it stops.

For a moment, Richie just breathes through the pain. He feels _full_ , and underneath the pain, he can remember that apparently this is what you’re supposed to do — that this is sex with another man. Or statue, as the case may be. It almost feels good, he thinks. Almost.

And then Paul starts to thrust.

The stretching and burning pain come back with a vengeance. Richie screws his eyes shut and tries to stop himself from hyperventilating as tears squeeze out of his eyes. His nose is running from how much he’s crying, and it’s so gross that he can almost forget that there’s still a lumberjack inside him.

After what feels like infinity, it stops, and pulls all the way out. Richie opens his eyes, and sees a red balloon rising past his window. His stomach churns in horror, and he leans over the bed to dry-heave onto the floor. The pain hasn’t gone away, yet; he feels empty and torn open, like he was ripped in half from the inside.

“Beep-beep, Richie,” Paul says, and when Richie looks at him, there’s smudges of white greasepaint on his face. And then everything goes black.

Richie wakes up.

He’s not in pain. He hasn’t been crying. His room is lit up by daylight, and there’s no sign of bird flocks or lumberjacks.

He stumbles to the bathroom across the hall and stares into the mirror for a long moment. The nightmare is already fading away. It wasn’t real. It never was.

When he goes back to his room, he stops in the doorway.

On the floor is a deflated red balloon.


End file.
